


The Prince and The Wolf

by goddessofcruelty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Arranged Marriage, Bathtub Sex, Dark Stiles, Fairy Tales, Fluff, Frottage, Good Peter, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Peter Hale, Manipulative Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Death, Quests, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Steter Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles, I'd like you to meet my baby brother, he was...otherwise occupied...when you arrived.”<br/>Peter darts her a quick look at what she's insinuating, when all he'd been doing was organizing menus for the prince's stay. “Prince Stiles,” Peter says smoothly, to which the prince nods politely.<br/>“Peter Hale. I've heard much about you.” Stiles then turns away disinterestedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of writing seven different Steter Week fics, I decided to write a single work with seven chapters, incorporating all of the themes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day One's theme is: Dark!Stiles

Stiles Stilinski steeples his long, elegant fingers and scans the documents laid out before him.

“Choices, choices,” he murmurs softly, shuffling them so that the sketches of each potential are laid out on top.

 _Vernon Boyd, excellent lineage, good reputation, handsome, modestly wealthy_. Stiles shakes his head and sets that file to the side. He needs someone that he can manipulate, and that one looks like he's got a core of iron. He considers perhaps a fling at some future point, gives himself a moment to think about being held down by those strong arms before he returns to his task.

 _Lydia Martin, his first choice, clever, very rich, easily manipulated._ Unfortunately, she'd gone and gotten herself in trouble with another man. Her file and that of the Whittemore scion are set to the side. Their joining will make a solid block of power in the East, something to watch out for.

Amber eyes skate over the map, matching the last two files to those lands abutting his own.

Hale on one side, McCall on the other. More than one option on either side.

 _McCall. Scott or Rafael._ On one hand, Scott would be no hardship to bed, and he and Stiles actually have a fair amount of history. However, he tends to be very stubborn about certain things, and when he sets his mind about something there's no changing it. Stiles isn't sure that jibes with the plans he has.

Then there's Rafael. The corners of Stiles lips tug up in a smirk. He's already bedded that one. However, Rafael has been a disaster since the loss of his wife, and Stiles doesn't think he wants those messes to clean up.

So, Hale then. Stiles settles the three pictures side by side. Talia, Peter, Derek, Cora. He drums those long fingers and considers. The old families are usually difficult to work with, and he's heard quite a bit about Talia Hale's ferocity and the way she rules with an iron fist. Perhaps her people would be welcoming to someone a bit more charming. If he doesn't marry her, he's going to have to get rid of her. Not that Stiles minds plotting a little murder, he's done so before. But this one will take a lot of planning and patience. Another death related to him so soon and someone might start to suspect.

Derek's a beautiful boy, and next in line for Talia's crown, but Peter is said to be clever and there's something about the way that he's drawn in this picture, an arrogance that Stiles feels the urge to destroy. Cora is lovely but tempestuous, and Stiles really doesn't need that kind of challenge. Perhaps after he's married into the family he can find a way to break her of that habit...

There are many possibilities with the Hale family. He's going to have to see them in person.

With that thought in mind, Stiles extinguishes the candle flames holding back the evening's gloom, but before he retires for the night, he goes to visit his father.

Resting a hand on the still shiny stone, Stiles smiles gently, always aware that there are eyes everywhere. “I promise to do you proud, Father. I will find someone who will love this land as you did, who will take care of your people.” _Who will submit to me and whose assets I will use to further my own power._ “Someone who loves me as you loved Mother.” _Someone who will be easily drawn under my spell and twisted to suit my needs._

Stiles bows his head in a moment of silent reflection, considering each of the Hales spread out beneath him, and then bows to his father's gravestone before turning on his heels, imagining the whispers of the servants praising him for his diligence and loving him in his grief.

Stiles stretches out in his cold bed, and amuses himself by thinking of that proud, mischievous Peter Hale on his knees, begging for the slightest crumbs of Stiles' favor. He wraps a hand around himself, imagines the wet heat of Peter's mouth, tracks of tears sliding from those eyes, light colored he thinks by the sketch. Stiles spills over his hands as he thinks of painting that haughty face with streaks of his come, and making the older man stay like that for hours.

He cleans himself and curls up on his silk sheets, plush lips curving into a smile as he drifts into a contented sleep.

-

“Prince, uh – ”

“Stiles is fine,” he says with a wink that sets Talia back a step, and her chin lifts in defiant arrogance. There's something _off_ about their visitor, and her hackles are immediately raised. He's barely eighteen and grieving his father, and yet he's cool and collected, hardly the callow youth she expected. And he dares to wink at her as if she's some common girl who will sit on his knee.

But Talia has been a lady a long time, and so she just inclines her head regally as befits her rank and introduces her family. “Prince Stiles, these are my children, Derek and Cora.” The prince nods softly, noting the omission of any mention of Laura since she'd abdicated her position and run off with a soldier by the name of Parrish.

Stiles reaches out and takes Derek's hand, looks up through his lashes and tilts his neck just so, showing off his best assets for the heir to the Hale lands. Talia sets her jaw as Stiles steps into Derek's space invitingly.

Fortunately for her sanity and perhaps for her son, Derek is oblivious to what Stiles is trying to do, and just nods with a polite smile. For the first time, the Duchess is grateful for her son's bookish ways.

Cora is just a year younger than Stiles and Talia watches carefully, but Stiles is far more circumspect with the young lady, very courtly and polite, and it bores her wild child daughter, who shifts uncomfortably, unused to the weight of the gown she's wearing.

Stiles doesn't seem put off by her offspring's disinterest in the least, he looks... _amused_ , more than anything else.

Stiles turns back to Talia, and both her children begin the process of sneaking away, Derek to his books, Cora to her horses. Their mother lets them go, they'll have to suffer through enough formal functions while Stiles is here.

“I am sorry to hear about your father,” Talia offers, “John was a good man.”

Something shadowed across those honey eyes before Stiles bows his head, hiding them from view a moment.

“Thank you, my lady,” he murmurs. “And I your husband. I met Andrew once, he was kind enough to give me a lesson on axe fighting.”

Talia can't hide the wince. Her late husband's fighting skills – and tempter – were legendary. “I imagine that was rather...” she searches for an appropriate term, “...eventful.”

Stiles surprises her by throwing back his head and laughing. “You could say that.”

When Stiles laughs, he's _beautiful_.

Talia feels an unaccustomed warmth in her gut at the sight, and she wonders if he'd consider – _no, he's barely an adult_ , she reminds herself. _I've been alone too long_ , she thinks, and pushes the idea far, far away back in the recesses of her mind.

Talia turns away to see her brother standing in the doorway, watching Stiles curiously, and she glances between them a brief moment, and then makes up her mind, tucking her hand in Stiles' arm and gently directing him towards Peter.

“Stiles, I'd like you to meet my baby brother, he was...otherwise occupied...when you arrived.”

Peter darts her a quick look at what she's insinuating, when all he'd been doing was organizing menus for the prince's stay. “Prince Stiles,” Peter says smoothly, to which the prince nods politely.

“Peter Hale. I've heard much about you.” Stiles then turns away disinterestedly, forcing Talia to follow since she's still attached to his arm, and engages her in a discussion of her duchy's exports. Talia wonders about this prince, who has taken exactly the wrong tack with every single member of her family if he's going about attempting to lure one of them into marriage.

Peter likes to be fawned over, _adulated_ , and Stiles has just basically dismissed him as worthless. Talia risks a glance over her shoulder to see Peter staring after the prince thoughtfully. _Then again, maybe not_ , she thinks smugly. If she can get rid of her brother and cement her ties to the throne, perhaps Talia can come out ahead after all.

-

Two days later, Talia's reconsidering. She just might claim this young man for herself, age be damned. He's somehow turned failure into victory with both of her children, not only discussing horses at length with Cora, but also literature with Derek. And he's suggested a handful of things to her during their discussions of her lands that she just may implement.

He's still treating Peter like a second class citizen, which is endlessly entertaining for Talia, given her own opinions on her overindulged little brother. He's always had a very high opinion of himself, it's gratifying to see him taken down a peg.

Which is why she's taken aback when Stiles asks her for her brother's hand in marriage.

“You're needed here, my lady,” he says softly, squeezing her hand, gaze steady as he looks down into her eyes. “Otherwise I might consider sweeping you away to a secluded cove and having my way with you.” She keeps her decorum, manages to shrug as if the matter was of no concern to her as he continues. “And often, I've found, in arrangements such as these, both partners tend to look...elsewhere...for what they need.”

Talia lowers her eyes to hide the desire in them, and simply nods coolly. “It has been known to happen.”

“And, of course,” Stiles says, stepping back and looking down where Cora is taking jumps in a fenced in area, “I could never separate her from her horses. They do not fare well in my lands, as you know.”

“There's still Derek,” she feels obligated to offer, and Stiles squeezes her hand again.

“Talia, my dear, I invite you to take a moment and imagine your son at Court.”

Her eyes flutter down to see Derek settled in the garden, writing something or the other, and imagines her sensitive boy at the hands of those vicious rumors and plotting nobles.

“Perhaps you're right,” she sighs softly, and then nods decisively. “Peter it will be.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Two's theme is: Arranged Marriage

“He's  _twenty years_ younger than I am. How can I possibly build a marriage with a  _child_ ?”

Talia is implacable. “You'll find a way if you want to stay a part of this family.”

Peter crosses his arms. “I deserve better.”

Talia looks down at him. “No, Peter, you don't.”

Peter has heard this before, knows all about how he doesn't live up to his sister's expectations. He steps away through the garden doors to get some fresh air, but she follows, insistent.

“That's your choice, you marry the prince and spread your legs for him, keep him happy, or I disown you and send you the way of your mother.”

Peter closes his eyes and clenches his hands into fists. “Do not talk about my _mother_ ,” he hisses, but she lifts her chin, unfazed.

“You will write him a letter accepting his proposal.”

“Surely I ought discuss this with him.”

Talia shrugs and turns away. “He had to return to his kingdom, he left late last night.”

Peter sets his jaw as his sister sweeps from the room, and then sinks to the balcony floor, leans his head back and looks at the hatefully beautiful sky.

-

“People have been in worse marriages,” Derek tells him sympathetically.

“Run away,” Cora suggests, “You can have one of my horses.”

Peter has nowhere to go. So he begins the process of getting his things ready for transport. The wedding will take place in Stiles' castle. His family will accompany him there.

“The prince will be here soon.”

Peter looks up to Talia's voice from the doorway, eyes wide. “He's not supposed to be here for another week.”

“Schedules change. You'll have to get used to that.” She drifts into his room, opens a bag and looks through it, then starts pulling things from it.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“You own what I say you own, Peter.”

-

Peter ends up going to his prince a beggar, a supplicant rather than the treasured scion of a powerful noble family. He has three outfits, the deed to a small plot of land that was granted to him by his grandmother, and a handful of things from his mother that he'd secreted away.

“We'll have the rest of your things sent to the castle,” Stiles says, glancing at the single valise, “at some later point?”

Peter lifts his chin and looks up at his soon-to-be husband. “This is everything.” His eyes dare Stiles to say anything about it.

The prince looks nonplussed for a brief second, then nods once, snaps his fingers for a page.

“My intended needs a horse. Go borrow the best horse from the hale stable in the name of their prince.”

Peter stares at Stiles for a brief second, then he looks away as the corners of his lips twitch up in amusement.

Stiles steps forward and reaches for Peter's chin, grasps it tightly and lifts it until Peter looks up at him once again. “I _chose_ you. Never forget that.”

Peter watches the prince as he turns away to confer with some of his men, and _wonders_.

-

Talia and her children will follow in a few days, and Peter begins to suspect that the Prince – Stiles, he insists – may have planned this. It's an easier journey without the Lady's entourage, and Peter can almost pretends he's on a holiday with Andrew. He was young enough to engage in a bit of hero worship when Talia married the great beast of a man, who was tall and strong with an easy laugh. Though his brother-in-law had unpredictable moments of temper, and Stiles seems surprisingly even-keeled.

At least from what he's observed. Stiles doesn't...ignore Peter, per se, he just doesn't seek him out for conversation. He swings back to where Peter's horse is surrounded by a block of four riders (at all times!) once or twice to check on his future consort's well being but he doesn't stay long. The prince takes his meals alone.

Peter tries to strike up conversations with the soldiers, but they are not so inclined. They're not rude, they just answer his questions shortly and then return to scanning the horizons.

Peter's used to being alone, so he spends his time sketching the countryside, not particularly well, but he gets a fair amount of practice. They spend one miserable day in pouring rain, because Stiles, it seems, doesn't stop for anything.

Peter knows when they've reached the border because they switch from their horses to lumpy, bizarre looking beasts that he's read of but never seen. They're ill tempered and they apparently spit. Peter loves his instantly. The gait is different and it lulls him into a half doze as the landscape slowly changes.

Peter is surprised when they don't stop for the night, but continues on until well into the next morning. No one explains the change in schedule to him, but it continues. He learns to sleep at midday, and doze in the saddle at night. The second day, he's wordlessly offered a pile of gauzy wraps, and Stiles comes back to help after Peter just stares blankly at it. The prince winds it around his consort, covers every inch of exposed skin, even more so than everyone else in this train.

Stiles gets close enough that Peter can admire the sparkle in his amber eyes, and the sweep of his long lashes against his cheek.

“Thank you, my prince,” he murmurs softly.

Stiles nods and then winks. “Gotta protect that pretty face.”

Peter's left blinking after him, as he once again rides to the head of the train, not even noticing the water jugs being hung on the sides of his mount. Not until the heat starts getting to him, and Peter's in the middle of sketching a very intriguing looking tree, stunted but with spikes and he most beautiful purple flowers when he wobbles in place. Immediately the soldier next to him shoves one of the containers of water at him, and Peter mumbles out his thanks as he drinks, suddenly thirstier than he can ever recall being. He flushes as he realizes how hyper aware they must be of him, to have provided him with protection from the sun before he starts to burn, with water before he truly thirsts.

Peter watches the prince and wonders again what he's said to his men regarding his intended.

For all that he's lonely in a crowd of people, Peter only realizes how idyllic the travel was when they reach the capital.

A jutting expanse of black stone perches in the midst of red-brown dirt and tiny bush-like trees. It's not until he sees something move at its base, and realizes that it's a man, that the sheer scale becomes clear to Peter.

His new home seems very foreign to him as they ride closer, and the teeming mass of humanity becomes clearer. Peter also notices that the soldiers become more wary, hands constantly on their weapons now, and no one takes anything that the people offer them.

-

Peter's surprised at the chill within the stone palace as opposed to the constant heat of the sun outside, and he can't help but shiver slightly as it hits him. Immediately Stiles is there with a light cloak, and a brief flash of smile.

“You'll get used to it,” he whispers, and then squeezes Peter's upper arm as he unwinds some of the protective covering. “Remember, you outrank everyone here now.”

And then Stiles is gone, whisked away to something or the other, and Peter is alone again, the statement ringing in his ears.

-

When he arrives at his suite, it's full of people, and he halts in the doorway, a bit wide eyed as he looks around. An older woman steps forward and introduces herself as his personal secretary, and all the others as servants of varying degree, except for the lady in the back who is apparently a seamstress.

“The prince has ordered an entire new wardrobe for you, Consort Hale, and it's to be done in three days for the wedding. I do have some things that I pre-made so if you'll be so kind as to get rid of those things, we can begin.”

She looks at him expectantly, and Peter looks around at all his servants, recalls Stiles' parting words and lifts his chin.

“After I've had a bath and refreshments.” He nods and steps into the bedroom, eyes the huge bed, and his single bag, and gives himself five minutes to quietly have a meltdown. Then Peter Hale grabs what's left of his nerves and steps back in the other room to see that most everyone has cleared out, and there's a hot bath and a tray of food waiting.

His secretary nods. “Is there anything else you require, my lord? I have several things to accomplish before the wedding.”

Peter considers. “I'd like any histories about the princes' family, and maybe some treatises on local customs, etiquette, manners, that sort of thing.”

She nods and vanishes. Peter washes himself quickly and then suffers being measured and trying on outfit after outfit. He stays quiet, listens the them talk amongst themselves about the other nobles at court.

Before she leaves, the seamstress has him settled with a handful of outfits, with more to come. Somehow, he's exhausted after she whirls away with her staff.

There's no time to rest, for his secretary sweeps back in, hands Peter several books and a brief annotated list. “Things you'll need for tonight,” she nods, glances at the grandfather clock in the corner, “In three hours actually.” She hands him another paper. “This is your schedule until the wedding.”

Peter glances at it, arches a brow. “State Dinner?” he queries.

“You'll be introduced to the Court, it's very formal,” she answers, and then starts laying out things from the wardrobe. “The jeweler will be here in an hour to match to your outfit.”

Peter silently slips from the soft robe and pulls on the silk undershorts and the shirt that goes underneath the apparently huge pile of clothing laying on his bed.

That's when Stiles sweeps in unannounced.

The Prince halts in the doorway, lets his eyes travel slowly over Peter's body, and for all that the consort is twenty years his senior, he's the one that feels like the blushing virgin. Peter sits down on the bed and lifts the trousers, pretending to judge their fit but really just covering up his physical reaction to the heat in his future husband's eyes.

The secretary bows and starts to leave the room, but Stiles halts her, looks at the clothing on the bed and then back to her.

“Blue. Put him in blue.” He stalks closer to Peter, pushes the older man's chin up with a finger and looks deep into Peter's eyes. Peter arches both brows and meets the gaze head on. The corner of Stiles' lips quirk. “I'm giving him the sapphire.”

The prince steps back and stalks past the gaping woman without looking back. She turns and considers Peter, who stares after Stiles, and then starts putting the things back into the wardrobe.

“The sapphire?” Peter wonders, and the woman stands up, her back to him.

“It's a sign of his intentions, my lord,” she says softly, before clamming up and bringing new clothing from the wardrobe.

-

As requested, Peter is dressed in royal blue for the dinner, that sapphire gleaming bright at the base of his throat, framed by the open, dipping collar of the blue silk shirt. There's a rippling silence as he steps in front of the crowd. He sees his sister, resplendent in their House green, alongside Rafael McCall in his deep saffron, and that's what it strikes him.

Peter is the only person here in blue.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Three's theme is : Human AU
> 
> Note: Here comes the non-con.

Stiles allows himself a rare moment of repose on the night before his wedding. Everything is going according to plan, both with the kingdom and with Peter. For all that he's self-sufficient and a loner by nature, everyone needs people around, and Peter Hale is no different. Only Stiles is making it so that the man has no one to turn to except him.

He smirks into his brandy at the shock in the court when they'd seen Peter with his mother's jewel, and in her House colors. _This one's for you, Mother_ , he thinks as he lifts his glass and downs it. Peter will also get the lands attached to the Campbell name, the barren and rocky emptiness that his grandfather had wiped clean of people, and salted its earth. And taken the last living child into his House, declaring the Name dead.

 _Not any more_ , Stiles thinks, and then settles the glass down, and walks over to his bureau, takes out the silver wolf that's the symbol of his mother's House, and runs his thumb over it.

He nods once to the empty room, and goes to his bookcase, slides it to the side, and enters the tunnel hidden behind it.

Stiles slips through the familiar darkness, silently stepping from behind the wardrobe into the quiet of Peter's bedroom. He steps to the bed and watches Peter sleeping serenely for a long moment, well under the influence of the sleeping drought the prince had slipped into that final toast to his intended's health, and then pulls the cover back to reveal the older man's pajama clad form. Stiles swiftly removes the garments and then steps back to lets his eyes drink the sight in. It's the first time he's seen his soon-to-be husband's body fully, and he takes his time looking over his prize.

Stiles gently brushes his hand over Peter's cheek, then runs his thumb across the consort's lower lip, before sliding it inside and out again, imagining how Peter will look with those lips wrapped around Stiles' dick. He runs his hands next down Peter's torso, pinching a nipple cruelly, idly wondering how sensitive they are. Very, he hopes. Further down until he's parting the sleeping man's thighs, cupping the soft flesh of Peter's balls in his hands, then curving long fingers around the flaccid cock, smirking as it stirs with his touch, thickening somewhat.

“That's my good boy,” Stiles praises the unconscious consort, and then shifts Peter, rolls him over and pushes one knee up to expose the dark cleft behind. The tight little muscle there beckons to him, and he can't resist pressing a finger to it with just a little bit of spit to twist just the tip of his finger inside.

Stiles is already hard, and he wants nothing more than to just fuck Peter like this, to take what is his while the older man is all loose and pliant.

“Soon,” he promises the sleeping man, but there's no way that Peter will not feel that in the morning, so Stiles shelves that until he's got Peter well and truly under his thumb.

The prince steps back and slips from his clothing, climbs in and kisses Peter gently, sliding his tongue along the older man's lower lip and then thrusts it in, exploring Peter's lax mouth with his tongue while his hands slide along the older man's side, and over the swell of his ass to tease around the spit slick hole, fucking his finger in just to the first knuckle, just enough that he's filling Peter at both ends.

Stiles moves his lips lower, trailing kisses across Peter's neck and then down across his magnificent chest until he gets to those pert little nipples, and flicks his tongue across one, teasing it into a tight peak and then suckling it hard as he twists his finger further inside his intended, until it's all the way in, and the hot tunnel contracts around it.

Stiles can feel the cock pressed against his stomach hardening fully and he chuckles at the sleeping man. “So very eager,” he whispers, and then leans down, takes that length into his mouth, tracing the thick vein beneath with his tongue before pushing forward until he can feel the blunt head at the back of his throat. Stiles gets Peter's cock nice and slippery before he pulls away, shifts up so that he can wrap a hand around them both, regretfully pulling his finger free of the older man's tight passage.

Stiles moans aloud at the feel of Peter's dick against his, fucking them both through his hands, stopping only to lick his palm from time to time.

Peter's mouth falls open as he shifts in his sleep, and the thought that he might wake up and see Stiles doing this to him is what sends the prince over the edge, gasping his intended's name as he paints Peter's stomach with his come. Stiles uses it as lubricant, and keeps his hand moving until Peter jerks and his release spills hot over the prince's hand.

Stiles collapses with a shudder next to Peter, rubs the mixture of their essences together and into Peter's skin.

“You're mine, Peter Hale, always and forever.” Stiles whispers into the older man's ear, and wraps around him for as long as he dares. He's well aware that the potion will wear off very soon, and so he reluctantly slides away and goes to the basin to the side, wets the rag and gently cleans them both up.

Stiles plants a soft kiss on the plush lips before he dresses Peter once again, and then slips away to his own rooms, where he falls into a sound sleep.

-

Stiles gnaws on his toast while he watches his servants get his things ready, considers the red and gold brocade jacket, thinks it will look striking against Peter's blue and silver, with the green sash as a nod to the Hale House. Stiles' own sash is the blue of his mother's house, long denied him.

The rubies of his father's House, set in shining gold are settled upon him, one clasping his jacket at the throat, the other set in his coronet. He clasps the silver wolf in his hand, the token he will give to Peter along with the ring exchange. The prince wonders a moment what token he will receive in return. Then he's distracted by things that need doing, and all too soon it's time for him to take his place in the hall.

Stiles settles onto his throne, watching as his nobles shuffle in after him, noting those who were quick to add an accent of royal blue to their wedding outfits. Talia's gaze is cool but he can see the bitterness in her eyes. Stiles inclines his head and thinks, _You'll be dead soon, my lady, don't waste your last days stewing about it._

When everyone is in place, Stiles rises.

The Court goes to its knees and Peter appears in the far doorway. Stiles fights the ruge to whistle because his intended looks amazing. That pride that had so attracted Stiels is on full display, and whatever Peter is feeling inside, he's all roylaty as he lifts his chin and watchs Stiles stride down the carpet towards him.

Stiles bows to the older man, and then offers up the wolf token. Peter bows in return, a mirror image of Stiles' genuflection, perfectly done, and then hands Stiles his own gift. It's a wolf's head pin with the emeralds of the Hales as eyes. Stiles eyes sharpen and he looks down into Peter's fearless blue eyes, and he's nearly overcome with a surge of _want_ at the cleverness and boldness of his intended.

Stiles fastens the Hale wolf upon his jacket, marks himself with Peter's sigil, and then helps Peter hook the Campbell wolf to the chain his sapphire hangs from.

Stiles offers Peter his hand, rather than his arm, and hand in hand they stride along the laid out carpet, the only noise the rustling of their guests as they rise behind the royal couple.

By the time they reach the dias, there's a second chair, identical in every way to the first, and Stiles leads Peter to it, and the older man stands in front of it, facing Stiles who stands in front of his own.

The priest, Deaton, slides from the shadows, the severe solid black of his calling standing out starkly against the glitterati assembled around him. He requests the rings, which are promptly handed to him, and blesses them in a voice that echoes through the chamber, and then speaks the words that will bind them together. Stiles' hands are steady as he places the golden ring upon Peter's hand, the older man just as calm as he reciprocates with silver.

Deaton speaks some more, and then steps away, back to his domain where all will spend the evening praying for their rulers. Stiles and Peter step forward, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss, and then settling down into their thrones to the cheering of the assembled.

It takes three hours for all the gifts to be given, opened, and admired, Stiles taking far more of an interest than Peter who just seems overwhelmed by the largesse.

The last two gifts are from Talia, a small package for her brother, and when Peter opens it, he nearly drops it. It's a journal, and the inside has his mother's name scrawled across it. The pages are blank, and Talia gives a one shoulder shrug at his questioning glance, and declines to explain herself as she offers the second to the prince, a carefully cultivated trio of seedlings, rare fruits that are almost certain to die.

Peter privately vows to make them thrive here.

Then the ceremony is over, and they can all retire to the great banquet. Peter is starving.

Stiles makes a point to feed Peter bites from his own plate. The older man feels like he can't refuse, but it makes him feel a bit like he's Stiles' pet and not his equal. It's even worse that the thought springs other, worse, thoughts, and the flush on his face isn't completely due to the overindulgence in wine.

Stiles leans close to whisper into Peter's ear, one hand squeezing the prince consort's thigh.

“I think it's about time we retire for the night?”

Peter's mouth goes dry and so he just simply nods in agreement, following the prince as he rises and leaves the table without ceremony.

Stiles snags a passing servant and gives him orders that the older man doesn't hear, and then he finds himself tugged into an alcove, wrists pinned above his head in one of Stiles' hands, the other sliding down to shamelessly cup him through the fabric of his trousers.

Even worse, Peter feels himself stiffen at the touch, and making a whimpering sound before Stiles covers Peter's mouth with his. He can taste the wine on the prince's tongue, and the palm pressing against him is insistent, and Peter feels thoroughly debauched, and the worry that someone will see them like this only makes it worse.

In far too quick a time for his pride, Peter's hips hitch from where they've been humping into Stiles' hand, and he's coming in the brand new silken underthings.

“That's my good boy,” Stiles murmurs against his lips, and Peter can't help the tremble that runs through him, or the faint glow of warmth at the praise. “Come, my husband, there's a whole night of delights left for us.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Four's theme is : Fluffy

Stiles knows this is his best chance to get Peter under his spell, and so he planned accordingly. By the time they get to Peter's suite, the servants are bustling around getting it ready. They're warming the fire and setting out a tray of food, and then the bath arrives and Stiles whispers into his new husband's ear. “I thought you might like to get clean before we get dirty.”

Peter, still flush with wine, laughs and leans into the prince's taller form while they wait.Stiles closes the door after the servants have settled the giant tub in place and filled it with hot scented water. “Come, get in the bath. I will wash you. It's a family custom.”

Peter considers, then lifts his chin defiantly, shoving all the hidden insecurities to the side and tugging at his clothing. Stiles steps forward, oddly shy and gestures, “May I?”

Peter nods and stands still as the prince divests him of everything gently, and he can't help the shiver that runs through him as those amber eyes rake along his form. Stiles smiles gently and then steps back so that he's not in Peter's way, and then allows himself to ogle the backside of his husband as he makes his way towards the tub.

Peter lets out a sigh as he settles into the heated water, and Stiles smiles and sprinkles a handful of flower petals into the water. The consort watches them spin on the surface a moment before turning to arch a brow at his prince.

Stiles shrugs sheepishly. “They're supposed to be aromatic.” He doesn't mention the aphrodisiacal qualities.

Peter leans forward and snuffs, then shrugs a shoulder. “I suppose they smell nice enough.”

Stiles chuckles and rolls his sleeves up before settling to his knees behind Peter's back, leaning forward so that his chest presses against his consort's back. He reaches for the cloth, wets it and runs it lightly across Peter's chest, making sure to slide it across a nipple. Peter twitches and Stiles smirks internally. Just as he had hoped.

Stiles gets the perfumed soap and takes his time about washing his husband thoroughly, and by the time he gets to Peter's lower half, the consort is hard again. Stiles chuckles against Peter's ear, and lets his soap slick hand slides along the rigid length, while the opposite moves up to brush over Peter's nipple.

He presses kisses along Peter's neck and shoulder while he efficiently brings Peter off once more. The older man closes his eyes and sinks into the tub bonelessly while Stiles rinses him clean.

The prince then pulls his consort from the tub and wraps him in a warm, fluffy robe. Stiles tugs him over to the chaise by the fire, next the tray of fruits and chocolates. Peter's eyes are half-lidded as he considers the spread of treats, and the events of the last hour.

“And here I thought you didn't like me,” he mumbles, too blissed for anything but blunt honesty. His voice is dry, and Stiles thinks he may detect a toiuch of suspicion. He rapidly considers his options as he tugs Peter under his arm and feeds him a bite of fruit.

“I wanted you from the first second I saw you,” he confesses, “but after seeing how Talia behaved towards you, I was afraid if I gave any sign of it, she woul dfind a way to ruin everything.”

Peter chews thoughtfully, gaze fixed on the fire, and Stiles looks down, then up through his lashes as the older man looks back to him. “She did turns down every suitor for your hand after all.”

Peter blinks, eyes widening and then narrowing. “Other. Suitors.”

“All of them,” Stiles nods, offers another bite, “and I don't have much to offer someone like you, someone clever, mature... _experienced_.”

Peter's eyes sparkle a little brighter at the flattery, and then he tilts his head curiously.

“You've...never...?”

Stiles shakes his head, then offers a shy smile. “Well, I mean, what we did in the hall. And the bath. But. No.”

The warmth that has been slowly pooling in his gut flares to life at the look in Peter's eyes, something he reads as possessive lust. Excellent, he's chosen the correct approach.

Stiles lets Peter pull him to his feet, and leads him towards the bed, lets the desire he feels show naked on his face as his husband slides his robe from his shoulders. The princes reaches out to skate is hands along that perfect chest and then down Peter's torso. Then Stiles steps forward, hands moving around to cup Peter's ass and pull their bodies flush.

They kiss at length while Peter slowly divests the prince of every item of his clothing, and the Peter steps back and reaches for a bottle from the bedside table, presses it into Stiles' hand. The younger man looks at the bottle a long few seconds before slicking his fingers up, manages to strike a credible balance between nervousness and eagerness he thinks, and steps forward as Peter kneels on the bed.

Stiles watches as he arches his spines in like a cat, and curves his ass into the air.

“Gorgeous,” Stiles whispers to himself, pushing one finger forward to brush across the furled muscle revealed by Peter's position. He acts tentative at first, just pushes his finger in a tiny bit, and takes his time working his way up the putting it all the way in. He smirks when Peter finally tells him he can add another finger, but lets his voice sound uncertain when he asks, “Are you sure?”

Stiles keeps the consort on the edge, under the guise of being a novice, until he decides _he's_ ready, and then climbs onto the bed behind Peter.

Stiles thinks for a minute, just running his hands along Peter's sides, and then he tugs Peter, rolls him over until the older man is on his back.

“I want to see your face,” Stiles explains, “and kiss you...” He trails off, lets his eyes dart away. Peter smiles and pulls him close.

“As you wish, my prince,” Peter murmurs against his husband's lips.

 _The trap has sprung_ , Stiles thinks triumphantly, and directs that passion into a very thorough kiss. When they part, Stiles reaches down, pulls Peter' hips into place and lines himself up. He presses in slowly, until his hips are flush against Peter, and the older man's legs wrap around him.

Stiles' moan at the velvet tightness is swallowed by the kiss Peter pulls him into, and his cock twitches inside his husband when Peter whispers into his ear.

“Now fuck me as hard as you can.”

-

Peter wakes up to the sun shining in on his husband walking in the door with a tray laden with goodies.

Stiles grins. “I don't know how many times I'll get to spoil you, so I thought I'd get it in while I can.” _And once you're used to it, and I start taking it away, you'll do more and more to get it back._

Peter thinks back to Stiles hands all over him, fingers in him, and then their joining, and stretches slowly, hiding a wince as it pulls on his sore ass.

“I'm fairly certain you _de_ spoiled me last night, my prince. Thoroughly.”

Stiles grins slowly as he settles the tray down on a table and climbs onto the bed, pins Peter to the mattress and leans down to nip at his husband's lower lip.

“I definitely despoiled you, my consort. And I intend to do it again, over and over.” Stiles presses his thigh between Peter's legs and slides it along the cock he can feel thickening beneath the blanket, teases his husband for a few moments, and then pulls back. “However, sustenance first. I swore to take care of you forever after all.”

Peter tugs him into another round of kisses, clearly adoring this side of the prince. Stiles indulges his every whim for the rest of the day, and then the next.

Stiles keeps Peter occupied in his suite until nearly a week has passed, and all the guests have trundled off to whence they came, and only then does he take the consort out to see his admittedly lacking gardens, and other favorite places in the black stone of his fortress.

Their idyll is shattered when a messenger comes riding hard from the Hale lands, bearing dire news. Talia has fallen deathly ill.

Stiles makes a note to send the assassin a little gift.

-

“I need to go to her.”

“Talia basically threw you out with nothing but the clothes on your back and you feel the need to go rushing off across dangerous country without so much as an escort to tend to her?”

Peter looks up at the taller man, eyes narrowed, quickly going from placidly adoring to attacking with vicious temper.

“She's family, not that _you'd_ know anything about that.”

Stiles takes a step back, face shuttering and eyes going dark. It's surprising how much that stings for someone who's responsible for the deaths of said family.

Peter instantly feels guilty and drops his valise, rushes to slide his arms around his prince, to bury his face in Stiles' chest. “I'm sorry, I should not be so cruel, I am just concerned. There is no one who I trust to take care of her.”

Stiles is stiff and cold, and Peter thinks he might have ruined everything, but then one hand rises jerkily and rests on his shoulder blade, before stroking softly down the length of his back.

Stiles sighs. “It's impossible to say no to you, Peter. Pack your things, I'll take you home myself.”

Peter gives him a tight smile and then nods, rushes off to do so.

Stiles tells himself that he's just indulging his husband, to keep him in the blush of romance, but it still feels like a defeat when they ride out merely a week after they'd returned.

Unlike their last trip, however, Stiles and Peter ride side by side, and instead of silence, they talk nearly the entire time. Peter tells Stiles of his childhood, of his family. Stiles tells Peter about his mother.

They discuss history and literature and the fine arts, and play games of strategy by their campfire. Stiles begins to realize that he just may have picked someone who might truly be an equal to him, in addition to bringing his familial lands to the crown.

The prince feels something odd then, a sort of warm tightening in his chest, and something of it must show on his face, for Peter reaches out and entwines his hand with that of the prince.

“Thank you,” the older man says softly, and Stiles finds he cannot speak, just nods and stares into the fire until the strange feeling goes away.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Five's theme was: Good!Peter

Talia has been gone for two days by the time they arrive. Stiles is relieved, he thinks waiting around for her to finally die would be incredibly dull.

The manor is in chaos. Derek has shut himself in his rooms, and no one has seen Cora since she slipped away from Talia's bedside.

As the highest ranking person on site, they look to Stiles to make decisions. He cleverly defers to Peter, setting him up as the logical successor instead of Derek, or the long lost Laura.

Stiles watches in approval as Peter defies expectation and shines in the spotlight. He manages to coax Derek out of his bed, and track Cora to a ramshackle shed in the woods, where she's squatting with a couple of horses.

Peter also plans his sister's funeral. It's tasteful, muted but elegant, and it goes off without a hitch.

Stiles is a little less approving when Peter decides to be suspicious about his sister's death. He murmurs to Stiles late at night that there must be someone acting against his family, it's too much of a coincidence that his father and mother died young, and then he loses his idol, and then his sister. Stiles holds him and says little.

The prince is relived when the man that Peter had sent to track down his eldest niece returns with the sad news that she had passed away a month before, during childbirth. A particular herb slipped in amongst the ones the midwife had given to her assured that the blood would refuse to cease flowing. It's not an uncommon malady amongst highborn ladies. The father and new baby had slipped away into the mountains, but the prince gives no mind. They've no real claim to the Hale lands.

Stiles is downright cheerful when he gets word that the poisoner, the agent of both those tragedies, had received his “gift” from Stiles. A foot of Argent steel through his throat, after one of their soldiers picked a fight with him in a tavern. A series of loose ends neatly tied up. He will take care of the imposter soldier himself.

Stiles consoles Peter in every way he can, putting everything on hold on the capital as long as he can, in order to deal with his husband's tragedies.

“You need to stay here,” Stiles murmurs, cheek resting on the top of Peter's head “Cora's too young and wild yet. And Derek...” He trails off, as if in search of the words to say.

“...is useless.” Peter finishes for him, voice bitter after a long evening of trying to get the boy to take an interest in the state of the Hale lands now.

“He's still young,” Stiles reminds, lips quirking where Peter can't see him, as the consort snorts in derision.

“He's a half decade older than you.”

Stiles lets silence reign until he hears Peter give a soft sigh of resignation. “How much longer can you stay with me?”

“A week,” Stiles muses, “two at most. I've already been neglecting my duties during our honeymoon.”

Peter nods softly and then turns his face up, catches Stiles' lips in a kiss.

“Then we'd better make the most of it. I'll leave instructions for the next week. Lets take a ride out to the Campbell lands for a few days, and then when we come back, we'll both go back to our duties?”

Stiles smiles softly. “You continue to amaze me, Hale.”

Peter stands up and reaches for Stiles' hand. “Just wait until you see what I've got planned for our night.”

-

After staying in bed most of the morning, the duo finally start getting ready for their trip. Peter closets himself with the heads of staff, while Stiles takes it on himself to speak to Derek and Cora.

“This is all your fault,” Derek growls at him when he steps into the room, and Stiles' brows arch in surprise. “You gave him that stupid waste of land, and now you're taking him away again.”

Stiles tilts his head, and puts on a sympathetic look.

“Derek, I promise he'll come back. We're only going for a week, then he'll be staying here until you're ready to take over.” Which you'll never be, Stiles thinks, because you are about to become an addict.

He reaches out to squeeze Derek's arm, but finds himself pulled into a hug instead, pats Derek's shoulder awkwardly.

“It's gonna be alright,” he says softly, lifting a hand up to stroke Derek's hair, as if he's the elder here. “You just need to find something to keep your mind off things for a while,” Stiles says soothingly, “come, lets go for a walk.”

Stiles gently herds him towards the barracks, where some of his soldiers are playing a game of chance. Stiles introduces Derek around, and the captain of his guard offers the young lord the dice. Derek rolls a double six, which earns him a clap on the back and a rueful groan.

“Take good care of him, Jordan,” the prince murmurs, and the captain nods. Stiles leaves them to it.

Cora is in the stables, of course, currying her mother's horse, and crying into her mane.

“Who will ride her now, Stiles?” Cora mumbles.

“You, of course,” Stiles says gently. “You are the matriarch of the Hale household now, and you'll have to take over those duties.”

“I can't,” she declares, “I've never been good at that sort of thing.”

“I've got a friend who could help if you liked. She's a soldier now, but she's of high birth, and could help while we're gone?”

Cora nods her assent at last, and Stiles takes her arm, takes her to the gardens.

“Cora, this is Erica.”

Cora takes in the blonde curls, the bright eyes, and the lithe figure covered in chainmail. “You don't look noble.”

Stiles grits his teeth a moment, but Erica laughs, eyes sparkling and steps forward, picks a piece of straw from Cora's hair. “Neither do you, my lady.”

Stiles withdraws once they're in fast conversation, and then slips away to his room. He opens up his valise, twists something just so, and pulls the tube that falls into his hand free of the bag. Made from the seeds of a plant that flowers only in his kingdom, it's that which fuels the crown's wealth.

It looks like dirt, but it's worth its weight in gold.

Stiles takes the tube, and slides the cork free, taps a thimbleful into a small paper envelope, and then returns the tube to its secret compartment.

The envelope gets sealed and folded into his pocket. Stiles will make sure Jordan gets it before he takes Peter off to the Campbell lands.

-

Eventually, they are ready to leave, Cora and Derek a bit more cheerful with their new friends, and Peter seems a little less on edge. They goodbyes are lengthy, however, and it's early evening before they actually get on the road.

They're both silent for a long time, mulling over various things, until Stiles breaks the silence.

“Tell me about your mother?”

Peter blinks up at his prince, a shadow of pain flashing across his eyes, and then he looks up at the stars.

“After Talia's mother died, it is said that our father became prone to black rages and memory loss. During one such, he apparently...” Peter pauses a moment. “..came to know my mother.” He looks away over the countryside. “Physically. Forcefully.” Peter's voice goes flat as he recounts the tale. “When he realized what he had done, he took her hand in marriage. Talia always told me that she was ' _some peasant that he'd been too noble to toss back in the gutter'_ , but Mother always claimed to have been of breeding. She certainly had the air of it, as well as a handful of her own jewels.” Peter is silent a long moment. Stiles doesn't interrupt him. “Talia threw her out after our grandmother died, and she became the matriarch. Mother was caught in a storm, and fell ill. She never recovered.”

Stiles reaches over and squeezes Peter's hand. “I'm sorry.”

Peter manages a tight smile, and then looks out across the horizon once more, whispers something that is stolen away by the wind.

“What was that, love?” Stiles asks.

Peter shrugs and turns to face him. “Something Mother used to say, the last thing she said to me before she left.” His eyes get faraway as he remembers. “ _The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack_.”

Stiles' stiffens and stares at his husband. Because Peter has just quoted the Campbell House motto to him. He shakes it off, and lets the quiet descend again, muses over this development, and wishes he were at home so that he could go over the genealogies. He's so busy wondering, that he doesn't notice Peter calling his name until the consort grabs hold of his reins and tugs his charger to a halt.

“You were deep in thought,” Peter says with an eyebrow lift.

“Nothing particularly exciting,” the prince lies, “just going over the language on a particular treaty in my head. I still don't like the way it's worded.”

Peter chuckles and tugs the reins again. “It'll be pitch black soon, we need to set up camp.”

Stiles nods and they take a few minutes in the deepening dusk to seek out a good place, finding a small clearing around a huge, fallen oak. They use it as the backdrop to their tent, and soon a rabbit is cooking over a merrily burning fire, and Stiles reads poetry to Peter by firelight, while the latter pulls out his knife and starts carving into a piece of wood.

When their supper is ready, Peter puts it away, hiding it from the curious amber eyes of his prince. “Not until it's done,” he cautions. “It's bad luck to see a gift while it's being made.”

Stiles kisses him on the top of his head, hiding an eyeroll, and then they eat.

Once they've cleaned the rabbit's bones, they duck into the chilly river and spend some time splashing each other until they're both blue with cold. And then they duck into their tent and warm each other up.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Six's theme is: Mates

On the third day of riding, just after midday, they cross the border that leads into the former realm of the Campbells. Stiles halts and looks out across the desolate land, still scarred from his grandfather's war.

“What _happened_ here?” Peter whispers.

The question is rhetorical, everyone knows the story, but it's quite another thing to see it before you, miles of empty earth framed by barren mountains. Peter slips from his horse and bends down to grasp a fistful, wincing as the jagged edge of a piece of glass nicks his thumb.

“Careful, love,” Stiles hops off his horse and grabs a handkerchief to wrap around Peter's hand, a few drops of blood falling to mingle in the dust. “Everything is dangerous in this land.”

Peter startles back, looks up at Stiles, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, concerned.

“You called me _love_.”

The prince huffs a laugh and shakes his head as he finishes bandaging up his husband. “It's just something people say, besides, I've called you that before.”

“That time you meant it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns away, tugs Peter's mount back so that the consort can climb on. Peter narrows his eyes a moment in thought. Why is he so sure? But he is. Peter shakes his head and climbs atop his horse, and the prince and his consort ride away.

Neither of them see the tiny blue flower that blooms where the drops of Peter's blood fell to the earth.

-

“Why did he do it?” Peter asks, rubbing his forehead to try to relieve the low level headache he's been nursing for the last hour or so.

“No one knows,” Stiles shrugs. “He left no record of it.”

Peter suddenly gets the feeling that Stiles is not telling him the whole story. “No one told stories about it to scare their children?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not to the grandson of the prince who did it.”

 _Lie_. Peter's sure of it. And he wonders.

His headache worsens through the day, and by early evening, it's blinding. Stiles calls a halt and sets up camp on a plateau that has a tiny bit of scrub grass growing on it in patches. He makes Peter a tea with some willow bark and a few other herbs in it, and the consort drinks it down, before crawling into the tent and falling fast asleep.

And Peter dreams.

-

“ _We can find nothing wrong,” the healer sighs sadly._

“ _Perhaps it's a curse,” the woman says fearfully, hand resting over her barren womb._

“ _Who would cast such a curse?” the man says disdainfully._

“ _Sire,” the healer murmurs, “curse or not, I cannot help you.” The healer looks up at the man. “But perhaps there is someone who can.”_

“ _Say on,” the man demands._

“ _Legend speaks of a wise woman who lives deep in the mountains. Seek her out.”_

“ _That's Campbell land!” the woman gasps._

“ _They have never rescinded the blood feud they declared upon my family.” The man's voice is suspicious._

_The healer shrugs. “It is either that, or resign yourself to childlessness.”_

-

Peter wakes with a gasp, sitting up suddenly, then groaning as his headache punishes him for it.

“Stiles?” He looks around, but the prince is not in the tent. Gingerly, Peter pushes his head out through the flap. Stiles is no where in sight, but what he does see, is a patch of bluebells, surrounding his tent in a near-perfect circle. They're beautiful, and though he doesn't recall them from yesterday, he does take a moment to appreciate them for growing in an otherwise empty landscape.

Stiles wanders up over the ridge, their water jugs in hand.

“Oh, you're awake, sorry, I had to go a ways to find potable water.”

Peter smiles and helps Stiles bring the water to their tent.

The flowers wither and die where the prince steps.

“I had the strangest dream,” Peter murmurs as he settles back to his bedroll.

“That's probably my fault,” Stiles makes a rueful face, “One of the herbs I gave you has been known to cause fever dreams. My mother used to claim it gave her visions.” Stiles leans in and whispers. “She thought she was a witch.” He rolls his eyes and then looks around. “Actually all of the Campbells claimed to be mystics of some sort. Seers, healers, witches, you name it. Something about this land...” He trails off in thought, and Peter watches him, wonders what he's thinking. But Stiles shrugs it off and chuckles. “Didn't save them from Grandfather. Now, how's the headache?”

“A bit better,” Peter says after a moment. “But still very present.”

“Come, let get you some solid food, and then another draught of the tea. You'll be right as rain in no time.”

-

“ _I've had a vision.”_

_It's dark in the room, faces lit only by the hot coals in the center, which a young boy ladles water over from time to time. The speaker is young, barely a woman, but they all listen respectfully._

“ _Waste and ruin will come to our land. None of us will be able to stop it.”_

_There's shocked sputtering, they are powerful, and have few enemies, there's no reason for them to believe this. But those who can hear truth nod solemnly, and they fall silent once more._

“ _My son will bring about our revenge. Prepare yourselves as best you can, and hope that I am terribly wrong.”_

_The woman withdraws into the shadows as the elders discuss their options. A young witch is waiting outside, pulls her into a hug. They do not exchange words, just a too brief kiss. They've said all there is to be said._

_The witch watches the woman depart, one hand curved across her stomach, not yet showing the child within, the other clutching the small silver wolf that her lover had left for her._

-

Stiles begins to worry when Peter won't wake up. He tosses and turns in their tent, caught in the grip of whatever illness attacks him. Stiles does everything he can think of to make Peter better, but in the end, he's reduced to holding the older man in his arms, and begging any gods that might exist to save is husband.

-

“ _You must help us.” The man looms over the witch, demanding._

“ _A life for a life,” she repeats again, “Whose life shall I rip away in order to give you the child you crave?”_

_The man's eyes alight on the child peeking around the corner, eyes wide and bright, clutching a carved wolf in her hands. He stalks over and tugs the frightened child into the room._

“ _Here's a life.” He presses his dagger to the girl's throat. “As long as our child lives, yours lives.”_

_The witch bows her head, thinks longingly of the blue eyed woman who had left years ago. She now knows that it is her who begins the cycle of her prophecy. The witch steps forward, presses one hand to the woman's stomach, and cups the man's groin with her other._

_She chants the spell, and the man's length thickens under her touch, and the woman feels a warmth spread through her. The witch steps back._

“ _You must conceive now.” She ushers her daughter from the room, as the man tears himself from his clothing. The witch pulls the silver wolf from her pouch, and presses it into the child's grasp._

“ _This will always keep you safe, little one. The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”_

-

“ _Witch!” The man roars from atop his horse. “Come out and meet your doom!”_

_He is wild, hair long and beard ragged, eyes bloodshot from drink._

_She steps from her home, chin high. The witch knows she dies this day. Her daughter accompanies her, wolf token clutched tight in her grasp._

“ _You killed my wife,” he accuses._

“ _A life for a life,” is all the witch says._

“ _For her life, I will take that of everyone you hold dear,” he threatens. The witch closes her eyes, knowing that the ones she loves most will live._

_Incensed at her lack of response, he gives the order, and the attack begins. He scoops up the child, settles her atop his horse, forces her to watch the slaughter._

_The man does not stop until no life of any kind can survive in these lands. Then he takes the child home, and forces her to become mother to the baby._

-

Peter wakes after three days, mind clear and headache gone. His eyes flutter open to see Stiles asleep next to him, pale and wan. E reaches out to stroke a thumb along the prominent cheekbone, and then plants a kiss upon his husband's brow. Neither wakens the obviously exhausted prince. Peter smiles fondly and then steps from the tent, breathes in the fresh night air.

He sits under the stars and wonders about his dreams. They feel  _true_ to him, and Peter thinks he's been given the story of the Campbells. But how? And why?

“He was born to marry you. You were always destined to be mates.”

Peter jumps as the woman's voice comes from nowhere. He rises and looks to see a tiny woman with pale red head smiling sadly at him.

“Where did you come from? There are no people here.”

“You called all of us when your magic woke. My name is Lydia. My grandfather was a Campbell.”

“Lydia? Martin! You're the enemy of the prince. Joining your lands with the Whittemores, fomenting rebellion. You're the reason he's begun to raise an army!”

Lydia shakes her head. “No, Peter. He began his plans long before I married Jackson. He married you to get your lands, your horses and trees for his army.” She turns to look at the tent where Stiles lay sleeping. “He craves what the Stilinskis have always craved. Power and absolute rule.”

Peter hears the  _truth_ in her words and he follows her gaze to the tent, uncertain of what to think.

“Come, Peter. Time to meet your destiny.” Lydia mutters something under her breath, and Peter falls to the ground, screaming in the sudden pain as something in his body begins to shift.

-

Stiles wakes to absolute silence, and his first reaction is relief. Peter's no longer shifting and mumbling, he must be better. But when his eyes focus on the empty pallet beside his, it turns to a cold pit of dread in the middle of his stomach. Peter's wandered away delirious, he could be in any sort of danger.

Stiles scrambles from the tent and looks around. He searches for footprints, scraps of clothing, anything that will tell him what direction his consort has gone off to.

There's nothing.

Stiles spins and looks outward, stares at the mountains on the horizon and thinks about the family legend, of the witch that lives there, the one who cursed his grandmother to die. Perhaps she's still there. If she is, it's a fair bet that she's the one who stole his husband, in yet another malicious attempt to destroy his family. It's as good a place to start as any.

Stiles takes an hour to scour the immediate area once more, just in case he's missed something, then packs up camp, saddles his horse, and begins his journey.

He leaves the wolf's head pin in the middle of their campsite, a token for Peter if the consort should return.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven's theme is: Fairy Tales

He travels east until he cannot sit the horse any more, well into the night, stopping for no reason other than to relieve himself. He eats in the saddle.

Stiles sets up camp in a clearing by the road, stretches out his bedroll beneath the stars. It reminds him of better times, where this sort of thing was entertainment in his youth. He pushes the thought away. Stiles has no room for anything but steely determination and cold vengeance.

Dawn greets him with a curious squirrel, which he skewers with his dagger and cooks over a tiny fire, then climbs aboard his horse once more and resume his trek. It doesn't occur to him to think that there ought to be no animal life in this place.

It's three days before he reaches the foothills of he mountains, and they loom grim and forbidding. Stiles feels similarly as he kicks his mount and heads within.

-

On the third day in mountain country, he wakes surrounded by men with weapons. Stiles will _not_ let himself be killed here, not before he finds Peter, and so he wraps his fingers slowly around his sword and stares down the biggest of them. They watch each other for so long that Stiles becomes aware of the huff of his breath and the sound of his heartbeat in the otherwise complete silence. All at once, they shift, parting as a small woman glides between them. Stiles knows that people should not be in this place, and so he wonders aloud. “Are you real?”

She pokes him with the blunt top of her walking stick. “You don't belong here.” she says, and her voice is grating, like rocks sliding across each other.

“Are you the witch that resides in these mountains?” he demands. “I have need of assistance. My husband has been stolen from me.”

“I am no witch,” she corrects coolly, “My name is Marin, and I cannot help you find your mate. I can, however, point you the right way to find the witch. For a price.”

Stiles lifts his chin and looks into the stone gray eyes for a long moment. “What's your price, woman?”

“My price is the iron of your blood.”

Stiles hesitates, all the stories say that witches can use blood to control their victims. And he shudders to think of his kingdom under the rule of these creatures, for he does not believe her declaration.

“Would you not bleed for Peter?” she says softly. And put like that, Stiles cannot refuse.

He pulls the blade, noting the way they shy back from the shining steel, and slides it across the fleshy part of his forearm, letting the crimson essence drip into the cup she holds out.

He struggles to control his disgust when she tilts it up and drinks.

“Continue north, Stiles,” she says as the men vanish one by one, “and listen for the sound of the hammer.” Then she, too, is gone.

Stiles tilts his head and listens. All he hears is the lonely howl of a wolf in the distance.

-

Stiles trudges along the uneven ground, forced to leave the charger behind, hoarding his precious reserve of water. It has been three nights since Marin had taken his blood, and he has not heard a hammer yet.

Stiles will not give in.

And then all at once, he hears the clang that echoes through a sudden expanse of massive stones, and takes a grateful rest, before orienting himself to the sound, and following along its path. He comes upon a man swinging a massive hammer, shattering large rocks into pieces in the middle of a quarry.

“Surely you are not the witch?' Stiles addresses the man, and he turns to look at the prince.

“I am Alan,” he says gently, “No witch am I. I was once a druid, but my grove is no more.”

“Do you know where I can find the witch?”

Alan rests on his hammer, looks the prince over. “Information is not free in this valley of death.”

“Name your price, druid.”

“You must plant a tree and tend it for three days and nights.”

Stiles arches a brow. “A tree will not grow in this place.”

“Find a way. Surely your husband is worth it.” And then he returns to smashing the stone before him.

Stiles steps back and watches the druid a moment. When he puts it that way, how can Stiles refuse? So he thinks and thinks, as the sun moves slowly into the west, and then, all at once, he recalls his pouch of herbs. Stiles opens his case and pores through the various things within it, that he had inherited from his mother.

He finds a seed in a leather pouch with a crude wolf scratched into the fabric. The prince shrugs and looks for a good spot, chooses a small rise with plenty of sun. He buries the seed in the dry earth, uses half of his remaining water to give it moisture.

The next day, he gives the seed the last of his water and lays beside it all day. The sun beats down on him, and he becomes very thirsty. But he will not see Peter again if he leaves, so the prince stays there. His head begins to ache that night, and he doesn't move for the entire third day, passes out cold for the final part of the evening.

A hand on his shoulder wakes him, and he turns bleary eyes to see the druid handing him water. Stiles pours some on the tree first, amazed when he sees that it is a sturdy seedling now. Then he drinks, small sips, and looks to the druid.

“Have I passed your test, druid?”

“Follow your heart to find Peter,” Alan says softly.

 _What the hell does that mean_ , Stiles wonders as he looks at the tree and takes another sip.

Stiles opens his mouth, turns to ask but Alan is gone, vanished as if he had never been there.

The prince sighs, and then rises, considers a direction in which to continue. He has just taken a step toward the north when he hears a low growl behind him.

Stiles turns quickly, unsheathing his sword, but there is naught in the clearing with him. He takes a tentative step north, and the growl comes again, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise. Stiles considers and then steps south. The menacing noise sounds again.

East brings only silence. Stiles tests this by stepping to the west and he hears the growl once more. With a sigh, the princes steps off to the east once more, as the moonlight caresses the back of the hiding wolf, silvering the black fur.

-

Stiles trudges along the path to the east, bone tired from this journey. He walks an hour or so before he is forced to give up, curls up in the lee of a large rock and falls into slumber.

He never sees the massive black wolf that watches over him, but when he wakes up, there is a pheasant laying in front of him. Stiles makes a tiny fire and breaks his fast with the bird and the fresh water from the jug the druid provided him with. It's the most delicious meal he can ever recall having.

Stiles feels much renewed as he covers the fire with dirt, and continues down the path.

The wolf follows.

Around midday, Stiles sees someone sitting in the road. As he comes closer, the prince can see that it's a woman, sword balanced across her lap, dark eyes watching him. Stiles comes to a halt.

“You must be the witch,” he says in relief, then his heart sinks as she smirks cruelly.

“I am a warrior. Braeden, my people call me.” She rises in one swift, fluid movement. “But I know where to find the witch.”

“Please tell me,” Stiles begs, all traces of the arrogant prince gone now. “I need to find my husband and she's taken him. He's not well, he needs to be taken care of.”

“I will tell you,” she says.

“Thank you,” Stiles breathes.

“When my price has been met.”

The prince closes his eyes. “What do you want, Warrior Braeden?”

“Three truths that have never before passed from your lips.”

Stiles is taken aback, blinks at her in silence, then perches upon a large rock and begins to think. He looks up to request clarification, but the woman is gone, and the prince is alone once again.

Alone, except for the beast in the shadows.

-

Two hours later, Stiles still hasn't spoken a word. He knows now that there is someone watching him, and whatever he says will not be whispered into the void. But until he does so, the prince will not get Peter back.

He could lose everything he has with his truths.

Then again, somehow, without Peter, it's not worth it anymore. He wonders when things changed. When his plans to rule the entire land fizzled away, were replaced by smaller things, the feel of Peter's body against his, the light in those beautiful eyes, the sparkling wit and brilliance that gave him a run for his money when pitted against him.

It all comes down to the question of whether Stiles is willing to give up everything to get his husband back.

After hours of thought the answer is a simple yes.

“I killed my father,” he says suddenly into the empty night air. It's true, and it's a truth, but it's not enough for the payment, the prince can somehow feel that. He tries again.

“I killed my father for power, I wanted his crown.”

Something loosens and Stiles can feel the acceptance of this truth. The next one is more difficult.

“I had Talia and Laura Hale killed to pave the way for my husband to take over their lands, that I might have their resources.”

Acceptance.

Stiles bows his head and is quiet once more. He only has one more truth, one more thing he's never said. The prince wishes his consort was here for this one.

The blue eyed wolf watches, hackles raised and teeth bared, but held back by the power of the enchantment.

“I'm in love with Peter Hale.”

The spell snaps loose, and Stiles finds himself flat on his back with a giant black wolf snapping its jaws at his throat. He lifts his hands to push it away, and instead finds himself looking up into his husband's eyes.

“Peter!” He wraps his arms around his husband. “Are you okay? Where did you go? What happened?”

“I found the Campbells,” he says softly, “my _family_.”

Stiles winces at the word family and looks away. “You heard me.” It's not a question, he somehow knows Peter was there.

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter sighs as he climbs off the prince, settles next to him. “You killed my family and then gave everything up for me. You admit to manipulating me into marriage, and then say that you love me.”

“It's true.”

“I know,” Peter says. “I'm the witch that lives in the mountains now.”

Stiles looks up sharply at that. “How?”

Peter shakes his head. “Not important. What you need to know is that you're done grasping for power. I will not let you raise an army or use Hale land to finance conquest.”

Stiles's amber eyes are wide, desperate. “And us?”

Peter rises, reaches a hand out and pulls Stiles to his feet. He reaches up to rest his hand on the taller man's cheek, leans in for a soft chaste kiss, then presses the silver wolf into the prince's hand.

“When the winter snows begin, look for me to come from the east.”

Stiles holds that promise as tightly as he does the token while Peter fades from view. Only when his consort is completely gone, does Stiles turn away and begin his journey home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> > Please let me know if I need to tag anything.
>> 
>> Come say hi on [Tumblr](goddessofcruelty.tumblr.com)!
> 
> You **DO NOT** have my permission to show my works to anyone involved with the show.
> 
> You **DO NOT** have my permission to link to my works on Goodreads.


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